“There is one important point,” remarked Marchdale, “which it appears to me we have all overlooked.” “Indeed!” “Yes.” “What may that be?” “It is this. Is any one here sufficiently acquainted with the handwriting of Mr. Charles Holland to come to an opinion upon the letters?” “I have some letters from him,” said Henry, “which we received while on the continent, and I dare say Flora has likewise.” “Then they should be compared with the alleged forgeries.” “I know his handwriting well,” said the admiral. “The letters bear so strong a resemblance to it that they would deceive anybody.” “Then you may depend,” remarked Henry, “some most deep-laid and desperate plot is going on.” “I begin,” added Marchdale, “to dread that such must be the case. What say you to claiming the assistance of the authorities, as well as offering a large reward for any information regarding Mr. Charles Holland?” “No plan shall be left untried, you may depend.” They had now reached the house, and Henry having procured some clean water, carefully washed the paper which had been found among the trodden grass. When freed from the mixture of clay and mud which had obscured it, they made out the following words,— “—— it be so well. At the next full moon seek a convenient spot, and it can be done. The signature is, to my apprehension, perfect. The money which I hold, in my opinion, is much more in amount than you imagine, must be ours; and as for ——” Here the paper was torn across, and no further words were visible upon it. Mystery seemed now to be accumulating upon mystery; each one, as it showed itself darkly, seeming to bear some remote relation to what preceded it; and yet only confusing it the more. That this apparent scrap of a letter had dropped from some one’s pocket during the fearful struggle, of which there were such ample evidences, was extremely probable; but what it related to, by whom it was written, or by whom dropped, were unfathomable mysteries. In fact, no one could give an opinion upon these matters at all; and after a further series of conjectures, it could only be decided, that unimportant as the scrap of paper appeared now to be, it should be preserved, in case it should, as there was a dim possibility that it might, become a connecting link in some chain of evidence at another time. “And here we are,” said Henry, “completely at fault, and knowing not what to do.” “Well, it is a hard case,” said the admiral, “that, with all the will in the world to be up and doing something, we are lying here like a fleet of ships in a calm, as idle as possible.” “You perceive we have no evidence to connect Sir Francis Varney with this affair, either nearly or remotely,” said Marchdale. “Certainly not,” replied Henry. “But yet, I hope you will not lose sight of the suggestion I proposed, to the effect of ascertaining if he were from home last night.” “But how is that to be carried out?” “Boldly.” “How boldly?”